


Tick Tock, and Who Needs the Clock

by BlossomsintheMist



Category: The Avengers
Genre: Gen, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 20:04:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlossomsintheMist/pseuds/BlossomsintheMist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What does Emma Peel think, and do, as she wakes up each morning, anyway?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tick Tock, and Who Needs the Clock

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mina Solo](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Mina+Solo).



 

Her morning routine has always had a reassuring sense of regularity to it.

 

It has not always been the same, of course.  When her husband was alive (it is not that she believes him dead, but for all practical intents and purposes, to her life now he is gone, and that is, in a way, what matters), it was quite obviously substantially different, thank you.

 

Though she had still performed a kata and a fencing form every morning, even then, so perhaps in certain specifics it was not so different after all.

 

In those days her regular attire had not included a catsuit, of course.

 

She is actually not particularly fond of mornings.  They exist, and one can’t do much about that.  She isn’t sure if there’s much else to be said for them.  She’d used to let Peter deal with them—it was a wonderful advantage to being married.  She has an inkling that Steed is quite the morning person Peter was (or is, perhaps, still somewhere above the tropics, in the sky, is how her mind tends to paint it, even though she knows quite well that the image is rubbish, and wherever he is he is most likely on the ground like herself, even if he _is_ dead), but she has no particular inclination to pursue that observation, beyond the fact that the trait is quite a bit more annoying in one’s partner than in one’s spouse.

 

Still, she tends to have a routine, though it cycles through patterns and often changes every two months, a month, or so.  The exercise, the shower, and the morning drink remain the same, but some months the drink will be tea and others coffee, and the order will shift, depending (the shower after the exercise, by necessity, being one thing that remains the same).  She prefers her life not to be boring, and really, letting oneself become complacent is simply asking for disaster (she can’t help but wonder, in off, melancholy moments that irritate her even as she feels the sadness, the wistful longing, if that was what had happened to Peter.  But life rolls ahead quite effectively even if you aren’t watching it, and she determined long ago that she was not one to be crushed beneath its wheels.  So far, so good, at any rate—now if she can simply keep it up).  But there is something stabilizing about routine, in itself, and she can appreciate that.  Does so.  Her work now provides a great deal of . . . well, one could just call it general instability.  Not that she has any particular objection to that (she wouldn’t be very good at it if she did, and she makes a point of not engaging in careers she is not competent in), but contrast makes all sorts of views clearer.

 

Besides, routine makes the fact that mornings are a general blight easier to deal with.  And changing the routine makes the fact of the routine easier to deal with.  A matter of degrees, and she thinks about that as she opens her eyes into early morning sunlight, yawns, and scowls at her ceiling.

 

It needs replastering, and that is not a matter of degrees.  It is a matter of either doing it herself or paying a plasterer, and her apartment contains several classified items at the moment.  Logistics are quite the headache.  She enjoys being a spy, but it also makes life quite aggravating at times.

 

As if Peter didn’t.  She snorts a laugh and rolls out of bed.

 

She has considered keeping a cat, but come to the conclusion that she would never feed it, and it would most likely shed on her furniture, the drapes, and her clothing, so she might very well murder it herself out of sheer frustration.  For the sake of the hypothetical animal, she has restrained the urge—her need for fluffy companionship, such as it is, is not that pressing.  That being the case, she is alone in her apartment, and so as she stretches and yawns and dashes sleep out of her eyes to step into her restroom, there is nothing and no one to disturb her.  She has grown re-accustomed to having it that way, and these days, she appreciates the peace.  (Sometimes she wonders what she will do if Peter does reappear, sooner or later, because she is certain with a rock-solid sort of belief that she will return to him, but the notion of learning again how to share this part of her life with another is . . . disconcerting.  Or perhaps it will be simple, effortless, and perhaps it will never matter.  Impossible to say for certain, and rather completely pointless to think about.)

 

She is to be on call at nine that morning, and so after her morning kata and a quick continental breakfast while watching the sun rise (it is a coffee month at the moment), followed by a shower, she begins to dress for it.  Good lord, all the leather; it’s enough to make a woman wonder, but it is practical, for certain things.  Escape attempts and petty theft of things such as government documents being at the top of that fairly specific list.  It is eight fifteen—she enjoys time to herself in the mornings, it gives her time to remember how to be herself, not to mention a human being—and she is idly practicing fencing, because she has a vague expectation of that sort of thing coming up on their next assignment, when her partner invites himself inside her apartment.

 

She wishes she could train him not to flaunt that he has a key, but it’s no doubt useless, as he has more than enough skill with locks to open it, all the same.  Thus the key, which saves on bother, except when he decides to show off and sneaks in all the same.

 

“Mrs. Peel!” he says, “a very brilliant morning to you,” all bright cheerfulness and far too early in the morning, even as she flicks her foil to rest on his shoulder and says,

 

“Mr. Steed.”  She sighs a bit, and does not let it escape, does not let it affect her posture.  “You’re insufferably early.”

 

“So I am,” he says, with a dramatic sigh.  His eyes sparkle with anticipation, giving the lie to the dramatics.  “We are needed.”

 

“I thought as much.”  She flicks the foil up in a salute.  “A brilliant morning?”

 

“Brilliant indeed,” he says.  “I think they say that diamonds are a girl’s best friend, don’t they?”

 

“They’ve never met a good cat,” Emma replies, and prepares to cut her morning routine short.

 

Well, sometimes, perhaps, a bit of instability is invigorating.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here we are, and that was a fun exploration of one of the most awesome ladies to ever grace the silver screen.


End file.
